


hand in unlovable hand

by brinnanza, Jaynovz (Christel_Jenkins)



Category: Black Sails
Genre: A story is true a story is untrue, Angst, Darkfic, F/M, M/M, Post-Series, Treasure Island mentioned, dead dove do not eat, ghost story, open-ended story, this is not a feel-good fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 19:35:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30127803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Christel_Jenkins/pseuds/Jaynovz
Summary: “I did not kill Captain Flint. I unmade him. Captain Flint was born out of great tragedy. I found a way to reach into the past… and undo it.”
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/John Silver, Madi/John Silver (Black Sails)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 18





	hand in unlovable hand

**Author's Note:**

> Please accept the worst thing two angst-gremlin brains could devise. -bows-
> 
> Fic title is from No Children by The Mountain Goats
> 
> Because we are Extra™, this story comes complete with its own [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6fDQc3lmjGB6Zx4SCi6Hwn?si=IAK37F6jTr6U74i6xrbXUg), [moodboard](https://jaynovz.tumblr.com/post/645761501209247744/moodboard-for-this-sad-af-fic-im-writing-bc) and [fan art](https://brinnanza.tumblr.com/post/645933107629948928/im-sure-this-is-fine-and-in-no-way-related-to-an).

"Be with me always - take any form - drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! It is unutterable! I can not live without my life! I can not live without my soul!" - _Wuthering Heights_ , Emily Brontë

\--

_“I did not kill Captain Flint. I unmade him. Captain Flint was born out of great tragedy. I found a way to reach into the past… and undo it.”_

Even at the time, Silver had known it would be difficult, that he was tearing his own world down to foundation and setting fire to the remains. He’d known, even as Flint had said it, that Madi might never forgive him, that Flint might never forgive him. The price to his own relationships was worth it, he’d decided, especially when coupled with the pleasure of being able to give Flint this gift, to return to him what had been lost so many years ago.

_“There is a place near Savannah… Thomas Hamilton was there. He disbelieved me. He continued to resist, and corralling him took great effort.”_

Madi is as reticent to accept the account as Flint was at first, but for once Silver is not prevaricating or dissembling. There are no lies left within him to tell, no attempt to conceal the full measure of his orchestration. If Madi deserves anything from him, it is the full, unvarnished truth, the depths of the betrayal he’d wrought against her. Perhaps he should have told Flint sooner that Thomas yet lived, but surely all the years they will now have together is fair recompense in the end. They will be safe, together, unyoked at last from the prospect of an endless war.

_“...The closer we got to Savannah, his resistance began to diminish. I couldn’t say why. I wasn’t expecting it. Perhaps as the promise of seeing Thomas got closer... he grew more comfortable letting go of this man he created in response to his loss. The man whose mind I had come to know so well... whose mind I'd in some ways incorporated into my own. It was a strange experience to see something from it... so unexpected. I choose to believe it... because it wasn't the man I had come to know at all... but one who existed beforehand... waking from a long... and terrible nightmare.”_

Flint had told him once about Odysseus and the oar, a final quest to seek a land where no one had ever been troubled by the sea. How he’d wished to cast that part of himself into the sea itself, and leave the tides behind for good. Charles Town had burned his hopes of such a thing, but if Silver had done nothing else for him in the history of their partnership, he had been the one to show him another way. There is always another way, and Silver had resolved once again to pull Flint from the depths with his own two hands.

_“Reorienting to the daylight... and the world as it existed before he first closed his eyes... letting the memory of the nightmare fade away.”_

It’s different for Madi than it was for Flint. He hadn’t given Madi even the illusion of choice that he’d given Flint, had uniquely disenfranchised her in a way that he hadn’t Flint. But what was the use of changing the world if the only things of import were sacrificed?

_“You may think what you want of me. I will draw comfort in the knowledge that you're alive to think it. But I'm not the villain you fear I am.”_

Perhaps they’ll never see eye to eye. Truthfully, Silver knows he doesn’t deserve her forgiveness. But she’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to hold onto, the only person who has made him want to be good and true, to live up to her expectations.

_“I will stay. And I will wait. A day... a month... a year... forever... in the hopes that you will understand why I did what I did.”_

Silver refuses to feel guilty for saving his friend from a terrible fate, for saving Madi from a terrible fate. For absolving them both of a lifetime of suffering, loss, strife.

Even as Madi turns her back on Silver, banishing him from her presence. Even as he sees the tears rimming her eyes, both furious and hurt, betrayed. Even as her dismissal of him from their shared home threatens to level Silver, punching a hole in his chest...

It was worth it, he thinks. Her brilliant presence will not be consumed by a nightmare, snuffed out by an endless war

As Silver goes to leave, he sees that Flint sits in the corner of the room, regarding him intently, half in shadow.

“Who was really unmade?” he asks quietly.

\--

Slowly, they grow back together.

Madi forgives him little by little, the anger easing from her heart more each day. She knows John’s actions were motivated by love even if it was fear that made him act. She tries to focus on that, on his devotion, his promise to wait for as long as it takes her to understand.

She also allows herself to miss him--how beautiful he is, how the sun glints gold off his smooth skin, the tumble of his curls on her pillow. His sharp, dry humor. An intellect that matches her own, the hard-won vulnerability he’d shared with her, all those quiet and intimate moments between planning their war, when she’d first fallen in love.

John Silver is an utterly infuriating man and he’d lied to her from the start, betrayed the trust she’d allowed herself to place in him. But Madi finds she can no more stop loving him than cut out her own heart.

The day she finally ventures up to the cliffs to invite him to have dinner with her, he looks up at her with wide, wet eyes full of hope and shock and love, and Madi nearly forgives him right then and there. But it has only been a few months, and these are only the first fragile steps towards rekindling trust, rebuilding what they had.

She’s realized there is far more under the surface of that enchanting smile, so many things she’d altogether missed, blindsided by his charm. Slowly, Madi relearns John Silver, comes to comprehend how much of this man is made up of smoke and ephemera, of Captain Flint and herself and others she’ll never know. She learns to see the seams in the pieced together tapestry of him, learns the textures of each panel and how they are woven together.

It’s possible even John himself doesn’t fully recognize the extent of his mimicry. He cannot bear to speak of what lies at the bottom of it, what small and fragile thing he’s built so many walls around. Madi finds she cannot begrudge him for it, not really. She loves him regardless. He is so very skilled at making himself lovable, at twisting into the most desirable shape.

They fight often in the first year. Inevitably, Madi finds herself reliving the moment of John’s betrayal, chafing at all that he has taken from her. There are still so many suffering under the yoke, so many she could have delivered into a better life. So many lost that she could have saved.

Perhaps they will never find equilibrium again. Perhaps love truly isn’t enough to move past these differences. Then, one day John comes to her, bright-eyed and hopeful, with a plan. A compromise.

“How would you feel if I went back on the account?” There is an old, familiar spark of mischief in the curl of his mouth.

“Tell me more,” she says, cautious but intrigued.

Perhaps they will be okay.

_\--_

Five years pass in what feels like no time at all, most of them good.

Madi’s mother has since stepped down, crowning Madi the new Maroon Queen, the responsibilities of which keep her fully occupied.

She and John settle into a routine: the island receives intel from the myriad spy networks that John has established in the West Indies; he hunts down any slave ships they have tracked. After a month or so at sea, John returns, oftentimes with valuable supplies for the island as well as those he and his crew have managed to free.

Madi has made great efforts to settle fledgling Maroon communities on several islands across the New World, She and John are partners in this, truly, as though they are still the King and Queen of their fledgling revolution.

Through the hard lessons of time and quarrels, Madi has learned to be content with what she has now, what she’s built with John at her side. Julius has even become a trusted ally, after many long conversations over the years, someone whose wisdom she has come to greatly respect.

Perhaps small endeavors for change can be enough. It almost seems that way when she beholds the weary relief on the people whose chains John has broken, whose chains they have broken together. Madi has at last found a balance between the chorus of voices crying out for justice and the future Eleanor spoke of:

_"One can be happy that way, can't they? A life of isolation and uncertainty as long as it is lived with someone you love... And who loves you back."_

It is not nearly as grand or world-changing as she’d first dreamed. And perhaps Julius and John and the others were right to eschew lofty ideals in favor of practical realities, but Madi still feels nostalgic for that fire sometimes. She remembers Captain Flint, how he’d lit the fire under her, how in one night he’d convinced her mother to repay England in kind for their atrocities, to begin taking things _back_.

She misses him suddenly, all that infectious fervor. It’s like a sharp ache under her ribs that comes and goes. Over the years, Madi has often wondered how Flint is doing, where he and Thomas eventually settled, what their life is like. If a man for whom peace seemed an impossible dream could dare to be happy.

John misses Flint as well, Madi knows, profoundly so, even if he does not acknowledge it. She can see the hole left in him by the absence of their intense bond, a hole she alone is not sufficient to fill. Too much had gone unspoken between the two men, but she knows in her bones that they had loved each other. John hardly speaks of him, but Madi knows by now what love looks like on John Silver’s face.

Madi remembers how she and Flint stood on the beach in Nassau, looking for John, believing him dead, how she’d seen the same grief reflected in his eyes.

Like recognized like. _Oh_ , she had thought, _you love him too._

Perhaps enough time has passed that the two men could make some kind of amends, Madi decides. And perhaps it is up to her to bridge the gap of silence between them.

She begins drafting a letter.

\--

Weeks later, Madi finally receives a reply.

She had written to this mysterious plantation John had mentioned, to a Mr. Oglethorpe, inquiring after the well-being and whereabouts of Lord Thomas Hamiliton and James McGraw.

She’d tracked down Tom Morgan, John’s original agent, managing to privately solicit the address from him. As well, Madi had included a hefty bribe with her correspondence, in order to ensure a forthright and speedy response from Oglethorpe.

The letter Madi receives back is distressing in its contents. She could not possibly have predicted the contents of Oglethorpe’s letter. Oglethorpe assures her that the information he gave to Long John Silver’s proxy five years prior was accurate. Thomas Hamilton was never an inmate of his facility. Nor did they receive a James McGraw.

Something begins to unravel as Madi stares down at the letter in her hands. The very foundation of this new life she has built with John is crumbling, the trust she’d placed in him cracked and straining. How is it possible John is still lying to her, has _been_ lying to her, even as he swears his devotion, his honesty, his love? She has watched him grow and change and calm over the years, and that it could all be a fiction...

Madi breathes deeply, resisting the urge to jump immediately to anger. John is currently at sea, she reasons, thus she could not confront him now even if she wanted to. Calmly, Madi decides the best course of action is to continue gathering information.

It is surely the end of something, but Madi cannot stop now. For good or ill, she must know.

Madi sits heavily at her desk, smoothing out a fresh sheet of parchment. Next, she writes to the Bedlam Hospital in London.

\--

When next the _Eurydice_ makes port, Madi greets John warmly, attempting to stow the growing worry and animosity brought on by Oglethorpe’s letter, as well as the news she has received from Bedlam.

He’s brought ten new souls to the island, freed from a slave ship they’d captured. John is eager to introduce her, as he always is since they first made this compromise, seeking her approval, hoping that this can be enough for her.

Meeting frightened and shell-shocked expressions, Madi takes the time to clasp each of their hands, learn their names. She assures them that they are home, and sees to their accommodations personally.

Later, after practically scarfing down the meal put in front of him and wearied from months at sea, John passes out in their bed.

Madi takes this opportunity to visit the _Eurydice_ alone. The crew scamper about unloading cargo, as she approaches, the ship aflurry with activity. She finds Ben Gunn and Israel Hands standing together on the upper deck, two of John’s current crew who she knows were present that last day on Skeleton Island, the day the war ended.

When she inquires about the plantation, Ben Gunn’s wide eyes shift uneasily from her to Hands and back. John’s long-time quartermaster looks as surly and inscrutable as ever, but Madi notices his frown deepen.

Finally, Ben speaks. “Yes, ma’am, we did sail to Savannah five years ago, but Flint weren’t on board.”

Her brow furrows. “What do you mean? Why would you go there if not to escort Captain Flint?” There is something like dread mingling with the confusion in Madi’s heart.

Ben frowns, his expression agitated, like he doesn’t want to say it out loud, doesn’t want to betray his now-Captain.

Hands meets Madi’s eyes now with his unnervingly blue stare, speaking up for the first time. “Long John Silver said we had business there, so we went.”

There’s something insistent underlying this statement, something she’s meant to hear. But then Hands turns away, returns to ordering crew, managing ship’s business. The conversation is clearly at an end.

Madi sighs deeply. The encounter has served only to make her uncertainty more pronounced. As she’s turning to disembark, Ben Gunn catches her arm. “Ma’am. I would caution you…” He hesitates.

“Tell me,” she urges.

Ben looks very young and very afraid, like he is once more the sole survivor of a vessel at the mercy of Madi’s people. “I would caution you against bringing this up with the Captain. Nothing good will come of it.”

\--

All men have their secrets, Madi knows, and John is no exception, but this… This _cannot_ be a secret between them, not when he swore to her it was truth, not when she has spent five years rebuilding her trust in him on its foundation. Not when she had spent the last five years foolishly, _naively_ telling herself that at least something good had come of John’s betrayal. That he’d taken her war and her choice, but god, at least he’d returned Thomas to Flint.

What else has he been hiding?

John smiles at her across the table, cheerfully relaying stories of his time away as they eat. The flickering light of the candles cast shadows of his hands on the walls as he gestures. Those hands, Madi has noticed, often speak louder and with more truth than the words that pour so smoothly from his mouth.

She is well practiced in keeping the embers of her fury banked when necessary, but she cannot sit here and listen and eat as if her world is not crumbling around her. “Why did you lie to me about where you sent Captain Flint?” she demands.

He stops speaking abruptly, eyes snapping to hers. His eyebrows climb, wrinkling his forehead in confusion; if he is feigning surprise, it is a skillful display. “ _What_? What are you talking about?”

She lays her hands carefully on the table. “I wrote to the plantation you told me about.”

This declaration sits between them in silence, as Madi regards him. Cold fury burns in her eyes, and she makes no attempt to conceal it. She is every inch a queen, and although some tiny, desperate part of her wants this all to be some grave misunderstanding, she knows it is not.

John’s eyes dart to the corner of the room, somewhere just over Madi’s shoulder and then return to stare at her, brows knit. "Why are you asking me about this _now_?” he asks, his voice tinged with despair. “Are you unhappy with me, with our life?"

"No. But I knew that you were not exactly happy,” Madi says. “You miss him. You are only half of yourself, despite how you try to hide it." John flinches at that, but he doesn’t respond, merely averting his gaze.

_It was supposed to be a gift_ , Madi thinks. _I was trying to bring you back together, to heal you._

After a long silence, he exhales wearily. “What response did you receive from the plantation that makes you think I’ve deceived you?” he asks. His tone betrays nothing but the heavy press of exhaustion that has settled upon him.

“Captain Flint was not there.”

John brightens a bit. “Well it makes sense that he’s not still there,” he reasons. “After all, I was counting on Flint to break out in short order and then acquire some secluded accommodations for himself and Thomas.”

Madi’s jaw tightens and her eyes narrow at these attempts at placation. “Just be _honest_ with me, please!” It is, after all this time, the very least that he owes her. “If you made other arrangements, whatever reasons you had for keeping them from me... Just _tell_ me.”

“I swear to God, Madi, I’m _not_ lying to you!” John insists. He is practically shouting now, his hands clenched in fists atop his knees, and his eyes once again dart to the corner of the room. “I _told_ you what happened already. We sailed to Savannah, we delivered Flint over to Oglethorpe.”

“John. _I wrote to Oglethorpe_ ,” Madi says, incredulous. “There is no record of a Thomas Hamilton ever being an inmate of his facility. Nor did they receive a James McGraw five years ago.”

He opens and closes his mouth a few times, no sound emerging. His eyes are wide, swimming with doubt and fear and something else. “What… what are you…” He trails off, unable to complete the question as if he doesn’t even know what to ask.

“I talked to your crew as well,” Madi presses. “They confirmed that Captain Flint was not aboard the _Eurydice_ on the voyage from Skeleton Island to Savannah .”

“You talked to my crew?” He sounds hurt.

She holds his eyes, unrepentant. “I needed to be sure.”

John stares down at the table. He releases a tremulous exhale then shakes his head. “No, that’s… that’s not true. It’s fucking absurd.” He looks up again, pleading, and says, “Madi, I swear to you, he was _there_ ; he _was_. _I took him there myself_.”

There is a wild look in John’s eyes, something Madi has not seen there in many years. He is unmoored, and Madi cannot help but think of when she’d found him sitting alone and feverish, refusing medical treatment. The same desperate expression haunts his features, makes him hunch in on himself.

Ben Gunn’s warning rings in Madi’s ears: “Nothing good will come of it.”

With dawning horror, Madi begins to understand.

The adamant tone, the confusion. He… he isn’t _lying_. The tenor of John Silver’s lies is as familiar to Madi now as the pattern of his breaths. This fiction he’d fed her, that he _continues_ to feed her… He believes it. Somehow, despite all the evidence she has gathered, it is true for him.

Pushing him on it further seems likely to shatter him entirely, and even though rage still simmers under her skin, she is unwilling to break him. She smooths her expression back out, makes her voice calm, and says, “All right. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

The rest of supper is a tense and silent affair. John continues to pick at his plate for a suitably polite amount of time, eyes shadowed by the deep furrow of his brow, before excusing himself, saying only, “I’m going for a walk.”

Madi stares after him as he levers himself up, retreating with the familiar hop-step that she knows so well she could identify it in her sleep.

She’s accepted there are things she may never know about her husband, about this man she’s chosen to love, his past especially. But this is different. Something is very wrong. Something has _been_ very wrong for some time, Madi realizes, dread curling around her heart. Suddenly she recalls other tells over the years, things she had brushed off as eccentricities, scars from his unspeakable past. How many times has Madi found John staring into the distance in an empty room or speaking aloud to himself? How often has she watched his eyes dart to the corner of the room or somewhere past her shoulder only to find nothing there that should hold his attention?

What else has she missed?

\--

_Five years earlier..._

When Silver leaves Skeleton Island, Captain Flint follows behind him like a shadow.

At first Silver ignores him. This ghost is a creeping terror, wholly unwelcome. His very presence seems to whisper into Silver’s ear all of his regrets, a reminder of everything that went wrong, of all that could have been. This Flint is merely a shade, and Silver knows that it will dissipate eventually, leaving Silver once more to contend only with his own mind.

Everyone leaves eventually.

During those first few months, as the grueling wait for Madi’s unlikely forgiveness stretches on and on like the sea beyond the island, Silver hobbles up to the cliffs each day. It’s a long fucking hike, and absolute hell on his shoulder and right leg, but the place gives him some measure of peace.

It is lonely, though, upon the cliffs of Maroon Island. He cannot regret his actions, but he misses the rumbling sound of Flint’s voice, an absence he feels nearly as keenly as his missing leg. Madi will not see him, will not so much as look at him when he deigns to hobble into town proper, and so the apparition becomes a kind of cold reassurance, a reminder of the bond they’d once had. The real Flint is safely ensconced in Savannah; surely it does him no harm for Silver to take comfort in an imagining.

With nothing better to do besides stare out over the ocean, and because it feels like second nature, Silver allocates some time each day to practice the sword drills Flint had taught him.

"You're still leaning forward, John," Silver hears from his left, and startles, nearly falling over.

“Well I don’t exactly have a sparring partner anymore to help break bad habits,” he bites back, without turning around. He flinches then, half expecting a suitably acerbic retort from Flint, something like, _And whose fault is that?_

Silver finally looks over, and indeed there is his Captain, wearing a clean white shirt and an amused expression, perched on Silver’s favorite rock. The sun turns the copper of his beard golden, lights up the freckles sprinkled across every inch of his skin. He levels no accusations at Silver, simply stands and assumes a position across from him.

“Let’s see if we can remedy that, hm?” A sword has appeared in Flint’s hand. Silently, they move through forms Silver knows like the back of his hand, a dance ingrained into his mind over months, each knowing exactly where the other will move next. He pivots on his crutch, parries, ducks low for a slash that Flint has to jump back from.

The apparition can only know what Silver knows, can only move as fluidly as Silver remembers, but it is more than suitable. After several bouts, Silver is dripping with sweat, his shirt clinging wetly to his body, his hair a heavy mop against his neck. Still, Silver grins, feeling lighter than he has in a long time.

“Much better,” Flint says, and his voice is warm like a Caribbean summer. The sun bounces off of him, freckles shining like constellations, eyes crinkled and mouth curled up fondly. He’s the most beautiful thing Silver has ever seen, and _god_ Silver has missed him, hungered for his presence like he is once more becalmed in the doldrums.

_He’s not real_ , Silver reminds himself resolutely. It’s just a… thought exercise. To help him practice.

For a while, Silver tries to keep the truth of the matter firmly in his mind, again and again reminding himself that this Flint is _not real_. He is merely a reflection of the piece of Flint that Silver had incorporated into his mind. He'd sent the real Flint far away, to be with Thomas, after all.

A story is true, a story is not true. Little by little, it ceases to matter. Flint’s place by his side is natural, _right_ , the way it should be. That he is conjured is unimportant; it only matters that once more Silver’s partner is right beside him, no daylight between them.

What’s the harm in allowing himself this small solace?

“Again?” Silver asks, extending his cutlass, and they begin the dance once more.

\--

It feels like Madi has been shouting at him for hours.

These are early days still; she has invited Silver tentatively back into her life, but he knows her grievances with him have not really been resolved. It feels like the dam of Madi’s anger bursts anew in a predictable cycle, and Silver sighs as he watches her storm out.

_“You have dictated this future to me, and I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for what you’ve taken away.”_ Madi’s words, her righteous fury, ring in his ears.

Silver doesn’t blame her. How can he when he knows full well the depth of his own betrayal? But they are seemingly at an impasse; her forgiveness, if it comes, must be earned, and there is nothing he can do to encourage it, save for being worthy of her trust once again.

He sits down heavily on the bed and rubs his temple, feeling a headache approaching. Something shifts out of the corner of his eye, and Silver presses his lips together tightly. "I would be grateful if you didn't say I told you so right now, Captain."

Flint hums. "All right. I’ll restrain myself.” He’s sitting at Madi’s desk, regarding Silver with his usual focus. A long moment stretches between them.

“But I know that _look_ ,” Silver says, _“_ and you clearly have something to say. You might as well just spit it out.”

“You _did_ know it would take time, John,” Flint says immediately. Not quite an “I told you so,” but close.

Silver’s mouth twists in displeasure. He’s not sure if there’s enough time in the world for Madi to forgive him.

“She loves you, and she'll come around, but she needs a new purpose. Such a bright and fervent soul as Madi will never be content to just be someone's wife, nor should you wish such a fate on her."

Silver knows that he’s right. It’s really fucking infuriating how often Flint is right.

“What would _you_ suggest then?” he asks, trying not to sound too bitter or exasperated.

“Marriages require compromise,” Flint reasons, looking a bit wistful. Silver knows he’s thinking of Miranda.

“Anyway, I know the clever mind responsible for swindling me out of the _Urca_ haul is fully capable of figuring this out, as well,” Flint says. There is no bitterness in the words, no spite. Instead, there is something like faith in his tone, like Silver is worthy of that faith.

The full weight of Flint’s stare bores into him, bolstering Silver. Flint still believes in him. Perhaps that’s enough for Silver to believe in himself.

\--

Silver and Madi spend hours making arrangements for their compromise, planning how Silver will track slave ships, how he will return those he frees to the island. Madi smiles at him without reserve, her eyes lit again with purpose. She is radiant; Silver would give up the sun itself for a chance to bask in her light.

Featherstone agrees, at the end of a lengthy negotiation, to turn a blind eye to the raids or any swelling numbers upon Maroon Island. That deal does not come cheap, and Silver is worried in no small measure about the delicate balance he must maintain between keeping the governor bribed and Madi satisfied.

Their plan is dangerous, but far less so than an all out war. And he knows it’s necessary. As Flint said, “marriages require compromise.” Madi deserves this opportunity, and her people deserve a chance for justice, to be free. He can at least help give this much back, surely, without calamity?

Now, though, Silver sits on the beach, leaning against a palm tree and breathing in the cool evening air. He’s been watching the waves lap gently at the shore as he considers the future.

He turns to Flint, who sits beside him in companionable silence, his arms resting upon his bent knees. Bathed in moonlight, Flint’s skin is paler than ever, almost translucent and his eyes seem to gleam almost turquoise.

"Do you think she'll be happy?” Silver asks. “Can this be enough?"

Flint shrugs, his fingers making absent patterns in the sand. “Would it be enough for me?”

\--

Silver knows his crew is growing restless. More and more he catches muttered complaints about how raiding slave ships - and freeing their cargo - isn’t exactly filling their pockets. Their other prizes yield little profit in addition as much of the other cargo goes to supply Maroon Island.

Soon their fear of the legend of Long John Silver won’t be sufficient to keep them from deposing him. He needs to find a way to pay or placate them. Or… something else.

In the end, Silver falls back to his roots, ear to the ground for gossip. In this way he is able to ferret out the dissenters and replace them with men who are interested in the common cause; largely men freed from the very ships he raids.

Long-time sailors, some of whom have been with them for years now, are ousted unceremoniously, making room for people whose investment isn’t monetary. The betrayed looks of those left at random ports linger in Silver’s mind, haunting him into sleepless nights aboard the ship.

"Do you think I did the right thing?" he asks his empty cabin, guilt churning in his gut.

Flint stands by the window at a loose parade rest, peering out at the waves. He turns at Silver’s question, raising an eyebrow. "You're really asking _me_? You were always better with the men than I. My suggestion would be to scowl at them until they did what I wanted."

Silver rubs his forehead with a groan. " _God_ , you're right. And we saw how well _that_ turned out. I lost count of how many mutinies I skirted for you."

At this, Flint huffs a laugh, "John Silver, truly a paragon of humility."

"Now, Captain, you'd likely faint from the shock if ever I demonstrated a lick of such virtue."

"You know…” Flint begins, almost playfully, _“You're_ a Captain now, John. We can't _both_ be the Captain of this vessel."

Silver shrugs. "Well, it's just us in here, so it's okay. And anyway..." His voice goes soft and private, a confession for Flint’s ears alone. "You'll always be _my_ Captain."

Flint treats him to a familiar half-smile in response, little more than a quirk of lips that nonetheless crinkles at the corners of his eyes. It warms Silver from the inside out like the pale rays of sunlight after a long and terrible winter.

\--

Sometimes, Silver will wake suddenly from a nightmare, chest heaving with panic, only to find Flint’s eyes trained on him from the corner of the room. They regard each other in the dark, Flint rubbing absently at his beard, saying nothing.

It might frighten another, to look upon the shadowed and looming figure, his eyes glittering bottle green. But in Silver, the sight only serves to calm his panting breaths, slow the rabbit-fast beat of his heart. He holds Flint’s gaze for as long as possible until he drifts back to sleep, safe from even his own mind under Flint’s studious watch.

\--

"Apparently, I've picked up your book-hoarding habits," Silver says, waving a leather-bound volume, "We acquired some from our last prize, and I found one I think you'll like."

Flint approaches, peering over his shoulder, "Indeed. Would you read it aloud for me?"

Silver makes himself comfortable on the bed, one arm propped behind his head. Flint sits in Madi’s favorite chair, an old rocking chair she had received from her father long ago.

Book held up before him, Silver scans the page and chuckles with amusement. How perfect this particular verse, given their many conversations about the nature of darkness.

Affecting a low and resonant tone, he begins to recite:

_"Night, welcome art thou to my mind distressed,_

_Darke, heavy, sad, yet not more sad than I:_

_Never could'st thou find fitter company_

_For thine own humor, then I thus oppressed."_

Silver stops reading when he spots Madi in the doorway, halfway through the poem. She gives him a curious look, her head tilted just slightly.

“What?” Silver says, suddenly a bit self-conscious.

"Poetry?” his wife asks, sounding faintly surprised. “An interesting choice. I would not have guessed this would draw your interest."

They do not speak of Flint, have not for quite some time. Silver cannot bear to speak of him to Madi, and she in turn does not bring him up. Flint’s place in Silver’s life is a private thing, for him alone, and so Silver cannot very well say that he knew Flint would like the poem. He simply shrugs, trying to play it off. "I have hidden depths, my dear."

Madi hums and gives him a knowing look. "Depths of degeneracy, perhaps.” Silver makes a faux wounded noise, hiding a smile under his moustache. “But lucky for you, John Silver, you are as pleasing to listen to as you are to gaze upon."

She settles next to Silver on the bed, a warm weight against his side. "Will you start again? I haven’t read this one yet.” Madi leans her head on his shoulder, a small smile playing on her lips, and Silver has never loved her more.

Silver’s eyes drink them in, sliding from Madi to Flint, who is looking at them fondly from the rocking chair across the room. If Silver tries hard enough, he can see them almost superimposed over each other, so alike and yet so very different. _My favorite two points in space._

With the pleasure of having both Madi and Flint now in his eyeline, Silver clears his throat and begins the poem anew.

\--

“So if we hook around this island here,” Silver is saying, tapping the map with one finger, “we can catch the trade winds and be home a day ahead of schedule.” Then he looks up at Flint hopefully, for either approval or correction.

Flint stands next to him, their heads bowed close together as they study the nautical maps spread out on the desk.

"I'm impressed, John,” Flint says warmly, and Silver brightens at the praise. “You've gotten much better at this. Though you missed something in your calculations." He points, indicating a spot on the sea chart. "Don't forget to take into account the tidal rapid near that island. There’s a risk if you sail too close, it may suck the ship into the current and we’ll collide with those reefs."

“Ah, I see that now,” Silver admits, rueful. “Not too terribly improved then, hm? It’s a good thing I have you here to guide me.”

“For as long as you’ll have me,” Flint replies, holding his eyes. He’s so close, mere inches between them. It would be the work of an instant to close that distance entirely. Flint’s eyes are very green, his expression so fond and open, and oh, Silver _wants_. It has never been like that between the two of them, but it _could be_ , Silver realizes now.

Flint is still watching him, his words echoing in Silver’s head. _As long as you’ll have me._ Silver wants to laugh; as if he’d ever really had a choice. From the very beginning, Silver could never resist the riptide that was Captain Flint. It had always been Silver trying to hang on for dear life in a storm, trying to convince the hurricane to let him stay.

_God_ , he realizes, _I really was doomed from the start._

Silver’s mouth quirks up in a half-smile, and he cannot find it within himself to mind his fate overmuch. A golden, sun-drenched joy sweeps through him, and he sways forward with purpose into Flint’s space, swept into the whirlpool of intense green eyes.

_Perhaps I can have this,_ he thinks, eyes fluttering closed.

“John, _no_ ,” Flint says, soft but urgent, backing away swiftly. He is suddenly on the other side of the cabin, having moved with almost supernatural speed. There is something that must be distaste in his expression, something that makes his eyes go shuttered and closed off.

Silver’s stomach plunges, roiling with nauseated guilt. No, of course Flint doesn’t want him like that. How could Silver ever possibly measure up to the ghost of Thomas Hamilton that even now haunts Flint. How could he be so foolish, so naive to think Flint would ever deign to cherish him?

“I - I’m sorry; you - of course, you don’t -” Silver babbles, any verbal prowess deserting him in the panic as he tries to smooth over the moment. To get back to the warm and easy camaraderie from before.

Flint looks torn, hovering indecisively. “John, it’s not that. I-”

Silver waves a hand at him, cutting off whatever Flint is trying to say. He can’t bear to hear any more. Silver’s chest aches, his throat thick with swelling tears that he cannot allow Flint to see.

_Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Of course I have to go ruin a good thing immediately. Why can’t I leave well enough alone?_

“Don’t worry about it. Just forget it,” he chokes out, and then flees the cabin as fast as his hopping gait will allow, not daring to look back.

\--

_Present_

Tramping around the island in the dark distracts Silver, at least for the duration of the walk. He focuses only on taking one step after the other, crutch there, foot there, but in the end it gives him no peace. Madi’s words reverberate on a loop inside his head, refusing to be silenced.

_“Captain Flint was not there.”_

Flint walks beside him as ever, but he does not speak, does not even turn his head to look at Silver. Silver wants to demand answers from him, some explanation, but he cannot bring himself to utter the words. They die in his throat, lost to the echo of Madi’s voice.

Hours later, Silver returns to their house, sore, sweaty, and no less agitated. Madi has already gone to bed, so Silver lies down beside her, staring at the ceiling and trying to make sense of it. Who would orchestrate such a horrible lie? What purpose could it possibly serve?

Silver turns these questions over and over again in his mind, examining them from every angle, considering possible enemies, possible answers. The effort only serves to wind him up further, and he finds he cannot sleep, tossing and turning.

In the corner of the room, Madi’s chair is empty. Silver feels Flint’s absence like a pulsing, living thing, a suffocating weight on his chest. If he could just _ask_ Flint, if Flint would only look at him, perhaps it would settle the tremulous thing within him.

In the morning, Silver swallows down his trepidation and asks to see the physical evidence. Madi solemnly presents it to him: Olgethorpe's letter, inmate registers for the plantation, and… death records for Bedlam Hospital.

Silver shudders as his eyes flit over this last document. _Thomas Hamilton: Deceased, March 15, 1708._ It cannot be possible - he _remembers_ Tom Morgan reporting back to him from Savannah, remembers the carriage ride from the _Eurydice_ to the plantation, remembers the haunted look in Flint’s eyes even as he’d accepted his fate. Silver clenches his teeth against a scream he feels lurking in his throat. His head pounds in concert with his heart, and he cannot still his trembling hands.

“This cannot possibly be accurate,” he insists, parchment waving in his hand like colors struck for a raid.

Madi studies him for a long moment, her expression grave. Then she reaches forward and grasps his shaking hand between her own, her palms cool and smooth against Silver’s overheated skin.

"John. You need to figure this out now,” She says, firm but not unkind. “Please. For me and for yourself. Whatever you need to do... I will wait while you find the truth." There is something resigned in Madi’s eyes, like she is already mourning something. Flint or their life or perhaps Silver himself, gone from her in a way he cannot understand.

But none of this, the death record, Oglethorpe’s letter, can possibly be true. He will prove it to her, prove _himself_ to her. He kisses her on the forehead. "I will settle this, don't worry."

He loads up a skiff with light provisions, a lantern, and a shovel. He knows what he will find there, evidence of their presence, a scuffle maybe and nothing more, but something is calling him back to that cursed place again, some compulsion to just… check. Just to be sure.

Silver is loading the last of the gear into the skiff, preparing to set off when Flint once more appears before him, his face drawn tight with worry. “John,” he says, uncharacteristically hesitant. "It… might not be the best idea to go back there."

Silver doesn’t turn. An eerie calm has stolen over him, steadying his movements as he finishes his preparations. Flint will see, and Madi will see that this is all some grave misunderstanding. “I must,” he says, with enough finality in his voice to stay further argument.

“I will prove to Madi, to you, that this is all a mistake. I know not for what purpose, but these letters are… some elaborate falsehood.” He pauses, glances out at the waves tumbling onto the shore, lit by his flickering lantern and the moon high overhead. “They must be.”

Flint nods. "If you must, then I will go with you, of course."

\--

Silver sails to Skeleton Island in the dead of night, telling no one of his destination. It is a route he could not forget if he tried. The journey takes a little under two days and he arrives just as dawn is breaking.

The island exudes an aura, causing his skin to prickle with unease. It’s just as haunting and eerie as it was the first time, Silver thinks, almost as if no time has passed at all. Weak sunlight casts a sickly pall over the inlet, fog rolling along the surface of the water. The half-sunk Spanish ship is like an omen, shrouded with crawling vegetation, and echoes that could almost be voices emanate from the jungle. The island has a timeless quality, like some ancient malevolent entity. Something alive, something with teeth.

Silver disembarks briskly. The sooner he assuages Madi’s suspicions, puts an end to this farce, the sooner he can leave this cursed place. Too many dangerous memories lurk in the shadows, in the caves, in the trees.

Shovel in hand, Silver makes the difficult trek up the tangled and rocky terrain. Something has pulled him back here, something that guides each step and compels him to continue. He knows the only thing worth digging up on this godforsaken island is a treasure no one but Flint knows the location of.

Flint walks silently beside him, his steps slow and measured. He is frowning when Silver glances over at him, an expression that does not change when he registers Silver’s attention. There is something tight around his eyes, at his lips, something he is not saying.

The compulsion within Silver tugs him inevitably to a familiar hill, a familiar rock and a clearing that he knows… knows is important, somehow. It itches in the back of his mind, a ceaseless, droning hum like a swarm of insects.

He stares down at the ground, covered in a dense layer of fallen leaves. It is unremarkable, identical to every patch of ground he passed to arrive at this spot, but he knows the answer is here somehow.

Silver digs for an hour; it's hard work, slow going and grueling. It would be difficult even for a two-legged man, and Silver remembers with a vague melancholy the night he watched Flint bury the cache on Maroon Island, the night he learned the final, missing chapters of Flint’s story. Silver’s muscles are burning and sweat pours off of him, the air made sticky and thick by the humidity of the jungle.

Flint has been sitting on the familiar rock, waiting. Twisting his rings nervously, he speaks for the first time since they departed Maroon Island, a last entreaty: "John. There's still time to go back. Still time to leave."

Silver doesn’t answer. He is nearly there, he knows, the buzzing in his skull reaching a crescendo that drowns out the heavy _thunk_ of his shovel into the ground.

Finally, Silver hits something solid, and he kneels down to brush away the remainder of the dirt with his hands. He wipes the sweat out of his eyes with the back of one arm and then peers down at what he has uncovered.

It takes a moment for Silver to make sense of what he’s seeing. Still partially buried in the soil is… a body. It has clearly been here for quite some time, decayed to bones and fabric. It’s swaddled in what once might have been a black shirt, but it is stained an old russet around a ragged little hole just above the ribs.

_No, this… this can’t be..._

Frantically, Silver claws at the dirt with his bare hands, uncovering more of the remains. His vision has gone blurry and he can’t breathe, can only gasp raggedly as he digs. It _can’t be_ , it _isn’t -_ And there, caked in mud and the remnants of decayed viscera, Silver sees it, something he cannot deny. Familiar rings, the exact same rings that his Flint is nervously twisting around his own fingers. Beside the skeletal hand lies a sword Silver would know anywhere, a cutlass that had rested against his skin countless times, held steady by a man who would never dream to harm him.

He’s found the grave of Captain Flint.

It hits him like a knockdown swell, stealing the very breath from his lungs, and Silver remembers.

\--

_“This is not what I wanted. But I will stand here with you... for an hour, a day, a year... while you find a way to accept this outcome... so that we might leave here together. For if not... then I must end this another way.”_

“You must know I won’t,” Flint says, and that desperate light is still in his eyes, even as his tone goes weary. His shoulders slump, exhaustion clear in every line of his face. “This nightmare you imagine… it doesn’t have to be this way.”

“It will,” Silver insists. He knows this, the truth of it written in his very bones, indelible. Whatever hope he might once have held has long since burned away to ashes, and Silver is so very tired of fighting. “Please, do not make me do this.”

“If you do,” Flint says, “it will not have been my hand that pulled the trigger. You can stand there as long as you like, but there is nothing you can say that will convince me to leave this war behind. If I let you take this from me, what else do I have?”

_Me_ , Silver doesn’t say, and even in his own mind he can taste the lie in it. He has seen the truth of Captain Flint, the rage and grief that he is built on. Without it to fuel him, without some cause to act as scaffolding, he will collapse, and Silver will have cut the ties himself.

It is a price worth paying.

“I don’t care,” Silver says instead. The gun is still leveled at Flint’s chest, Silver’s hand trembling under the weight of it. He does not want this, but he can see no other outcome. “I am sorry for the things you have lost, but I will not let you take them from me too.”

“You will have _already lost them_ ,” Flint says, and he steps forward, closing the distance until the barrel of the gun is steadied against his chest. His eyes do not leave Silver’s face, desperate eyes locked with Silver’s. “You have pulled me from the depths so many times. Let me do the same for you here, now. Please.”

“Stop!” Silver yells, tearing his eyes away. “Just fucking _stop_! This isn’t Hornigold’s fucking pardons! You cannot persuade me to leave this with _rhetoric_ ; I am not one of your men.”

“You are the _only_ one, John,” Flint says. His voice cracks on Silver’s name, eyes shining with unshed tears, and Silver flinches hard away from him.

There is a loud crack like thunder that shakes the air, and then Flint goes very still, his eyes wide. His hand goes to his chest and he sinks to his knees, red blossoming against his shirt and beneath his palm.

A strangled shout tears its way out of Silver’s throat, and he flings the pistol away from him like it’s a poisonous snake. He drops to his knees in the dirt and pulls Flint into his lap. “No,” Silver whispers hoarsely, pressing his palms against the wound to try to staunch the flow of blood. “No, no, no, please--” There’s too much blood, gushing with each gradually slowing beat of Flint’s heart, and he can’t stop it.

There is always another way, there has to be. This is nothing like Muldoon in the flooded hold of the ship - gods don’t _die_ , and if Flint is anything, he is that. Distantly his own words echo amid the shrieking static of his mind. _“There is no denying a man with that kind of power. A man of his capacities, his state of mind becomes reality._ ”

The light is dimming fast from that beloved fierce gaze, the one that had first caught him, pushed him, turned him inside out, inspired Silver to be _something_ finally, to make something out of nothing. Silver sobs, clutching at Flint’s shoulder, pressing down on his chest. Everything is saltwater and copper, and Silver is drowning in it, the roar of the ocean deafening in his ears.

_Flint can’t die_ , he thinks hysterically _He won’t_. Silver knows this, knows gods can’t die. But what if that god was ready for it, wished for it, hoped for its blessed release?

What if his last disciple stopped believing in him?

Flint’s hand is slippery against Silver’s cheek, and Silver tightens his grasp, pulls him closer. Flint’s throat works and his mouth moves; Silver leans down, pressing his ear nearly to Flint's lips so he can feel the warm puff of breath against his skin.

Choking on his own blood, Flint whispers, "I forgive you."

Silver jerks up, meeting Flint’s gaze. Those brilliant green eyes are going unfocused, the light within them dimming. That familiar and treasured half smile quirks his blood-stained lips, the same fondness that had greeted Silver after he’d lost his leg, in the flickering firelight beside the buried cache, each afternoon on the cliffs as they sparred.

Flint’s hand slips from Silver’s cheek, and his body goes limp, eyes dull.

“No,” Silver moans, rocking Flint gently in his arms. “Captain, please. Don’t do this. Please, Captain - James…” The air is thick and metallic with the heavy scent of blood; Silver wants to gag, but he cannot bear to release Flint. Instead he pulls him closer still and presses their foreheads together, Flint’s warm skin slowly cooling against his.

"I'm sending you to Thomas Hamilton," he whispers shakily to Flint.

He repeats it over and over again, like a soothing chant as his mind splinters, spiderweb cracks rewriting and erasing. It will be just another story, another thing that is true because he has spoken it. "It's okay. You're okay. You'll be safe. I'm sending you to be with Thomas."

\--

Silver looks up from the rotted thing in the dirt, trembling like the worst fever, like his leg is newly severed and the pain is all that exists.

"Tell me it isn't true," he says to the blurry form of Captain Flint. Flint is unmarred by the earth, so clean that the sun that filters through the trees glints gold against his hair. His skin is luminous beneath its constellations of freckles, and his eyes are an ethereal green, far too bright to be natural.

"Tell me I didn't do this." His own voice is almost unrecognizable, rough and grating like the drag of metal on metal.

Flint looks away, down to the hole in the ground, unanswering.

"I didn't. _I didn't_. I _saved_ you," Silver insists. “Please _say something_.”

Flint sighs. Finally he says, "You already know that I can't answer that for you, John. I only know what _you_ know, after all."

_Because it’s all in my head_ , Silver finishes for him. A desperate and hysterical laughter bubbles up in his chest and threatens to spill from his mouth; Silver knows if he lets it out, it will never stop.

How did Silver ever forget he wasn't real?

Silver stares at the horrible thing that used to be his Captain and breaks anew. There are not enough pieces to repair this time; when he finally finishes shaking apart, it will be the end of him.

"Please, wake up,” he whispers to the corpse, choking, “I didn't mean it. _I love you_. How did I not know I _loved_ you?"

Silver remembers everything, every excruciating detail in full color -- retrieving the shovel in a trance, the horrified stares of the others, snarling at them not to follow him, burying Flint alone. Then emerging, cleaning himself off in the still water by the shore. Setting a course for Savannah.

He is hollowed out, the cracked shell where the blazing presence of Flint he'd wrapped around his own shriveled soul, so that he could have meaning, could _matter_ somewhere had once lived within him. There is nothing there now, wind howling through the emptiness. The ghost that he’d conjured is a poor substitute, just a shade, his own mind’s best efforts. It had only served to shroud Silver from the truth for a while, to keep his mind from shattering completely.

He hears again Flint’s knowing words which seem to drift through the jungle like a curse:

_“She'll no longer be enough. And the comfort will grow stale. And casting about in the dark for some proof that you mattered and finding none, you'll know... that you gave it away... in this moment... on this island. Left it in the ground... along with that chest.”_

Silver stares at the shade of his Captain, who looks so sad for him, who seems less and less solid by the second.

“You were right,” Silver whispers, hollow and miserable. “It’s not enough. Nothing will ever be enough without you.”

Flint looks anguished. “I’m sorry that I was right. I never wanted this for you.” He is fading faster now, falling back into the treeline.

“Please don’t go,” Silver begs. “I can’t… I’m nothing without you.”

“I’m sorry,” Flint says. His voice is fading now too, until it’s barely a whisper on the wind. “It’s… it’s out of my control. Goodbye, John…”

The ghost of Captain Flint dissipates as if he’d never been there at all, and Silver knows that he won’t see him again.

All that’s left now is the dirt caked under his nails, the broken shards of himself that cut with every breath. He is nothing, no one, from nowhere, a shattered thing struck by a truth he’d wrought with his own hands.

Shaking, Silver lays down beside the real Flint, hands curling around bones and rags in some perverse embrace. It is quieter down here in the earth. Sounds filter down to him as if he is underwater--the shrill call of birds, the rasp of creatures in the underbrush, the distant susurration of the sea. Even his own broken wailing seems farther away.

Silver is truly alone. He knows he will never be whole again--the shot that pierced Flint had killed him as well.

\--

Madi waits and waits for John to return, but eventually she loses hope that she will ever see him again.

Some months later, she hears a story from the sailors of one of their supply ships.

A story of a map to Captain Flint’s treasure, acquired somehow by Billy Bones, a captain who’d followed it, a boy who’d believed in it. It is a rollicking tale of an expedition to retrieve this hoard, disrupted by a mutiny led by a one-legged man they claim was Long John Silver.

The sailors say that Long John Silver finally revenged himself upon Captain Flint, finally laid hands on the remaining _Urca_ gold, and then disappeared, cackling, into the night, as legends tend to do.

Madi knows most of it is likely nonsense. None of these men know the truth of James Flint and John Silver, how they were inexorably bound. They couldn't know the depths of the love or of the tragedy. Or the end of the story... which Madi herself doesn’t know the whole of.

John has never returned to her, after all, with answers. But deep down, Madi knows what happened even without the words. She knew it the moment she’d read Oglethorpe’s letter, that the man she had loved had been a shade, another fiction. She will carry that truth with her forever, sorrow like a millstone, next to the place where she still loves John Silver.

As foretold, they had been each other’s end. Too tightly meshed for them to survive separation.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Silver reads is [Sonnet 37](https://www.poetrynook.com/poem/sonnet-37-0) from Pamphilia to Amphilanthus by Mary Sidney Wroth.
> 
> Thanks for reading~ All death threats will be taken as the loving compliments they are obviously intended as. 😇


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